


The Noblehunter's Assassin

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Twelve Days of DA Dwarves 2020 [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Bhelen Aeducan/Rica Brosca - Freeform, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, Knifeplay, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Polyamory, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Rica Brosca, new to the surface, is ready to secure a place for herself and her family on Farren Aeducan's heroic reputation. While she handles the politics, the Hero of Ferelden slays remaining darkspawn bands. Rica thinks she has everything handled and nothing can surprise her.Cue her first snow and deepening feelings for a handsome assassin.
Relationships: Female Aeducan/Zevran Arainai/Rica Brosca, Rica Brosca/Zevran Arainai, Zevran Arainai/Rica Brosca/Female Warden
Series: Twelve Days of DA Dwarves 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036299
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	The Noblehunter's Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Twelve Days of DA Dwarves](https://twelve-days-of-da-dwarves.tumblr.com/) Prompt List! Prompt #7: Snow on the Surface

Rica Brosca’s breath swirls in the air in front of her, a cloud of mist that hangs still for a moment before dissipating. The fact her breath can freeze in midair is appalling enough. The horror of it happening indoors is almost enough to make her miss Orzammar. _Almost_.

But she does cast a disapproving gaze at the fire in the grate that throws off the most meager amount of heat she’s ever felt. The gown she wears, heavy emerald colored velvet and gold brocade, isn’t quite enough to keep her warm. If she had known the Arl’s study would be this cold…

She honestly knows she would have still worn the green dress. It’s perfect for this meeting. The daring cut over her shoulders enough to draw the Arl’s eyes, the rich cloth enough to earn a small nod of approval from the queen. Clothing, after all, is important. The gown shows she has power, shows she knows who she is and what she represents. 

The Arl and Queen may not like it, but they’re solidly in Farren Aeducan’s debt. Rica’s warrior princess is the Hero of Ferelden, folk songs about her ring in every tavern, prayers for her health and safety float out of every odd human Chantry. 

Ren can do no wrong. The country adores her. 

And Ren adores Rica. _Trusts_ Rica. 

Bhelen had too, but Rica doesn’t want to think about that. Orzammar is in the past and she’s got everything she ever wanted. She’s beyond Bhelen’s reach, free as the birds Ren is teaching her the names of. 

Being the lover of the Hero of Ferelden, her proxy at this meeting to decide what happens next as they stitch this country back together… well. Rica can’t lie. She’s born for this intrigue, born to match wits with Arls and Queens. 

She _relishes_ it. 

Eamon and Anora didn’t count on her shrewdness. She wonders if they wouldn’t have preferred Ren negotiate herself. Ren, after all, would be bored and eager to come to some sort of agreement. But Rica can hold out. She wants the best for Ren, for herself, and for Endrin. 

She wants Amaranthine and she’s going to get it. There’s no reason, after all, why she shouldn’t have it. The Howes are traitors to the crown; Ren is the woman who saved Ferelden. 

The Arldom should be hers. _Theirs_. 

“Well. I don’t see any solution,” Arl Eamon huffs. 

Rica’s too good at the game to roll her eyes, but she wants to. 

She thinks Anora does as well. Instead, the Queen stands. Rica rises smoothly in her wake, Eamon lumbers upwards out of his chair. Anora’s lips twitch upwards and, for the smallest second, her eyes flit in Rica’s direction. 

“I think fresh eyes will help us tomorrow,” Anora declares, reaching for her gloves. 

“That seems a wise course of action, your majesty.” Rica’s quick to agree. 

Eamon rubs at his beard and shakes his head. “Perhaps. I’ll walk you to your carriage-” 

“I can find my way, Eamon,” Anora insists, but her eyes sparkle with delight when she looks at Rica. “Although I would not mind a chance to speak to you, my lady Brosca. Your gowns are _magnificent_.” 

Eamon looks bored _instantly_. Rica bites the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. 

“I would be honored to accompany you,” she says with the most polite, opaque smile she can manage. Before Eamon can throw up even the most half-hearted protest, Anora has whisked her away into the hallway. 

By the time she says her farewell to the Queen in the Great Hall, they’ve sorted it all out. All that remains is to bring Eamon around, which they’re both confident can be done with some patience. Rica will be the Lady of Amaranthine, Anora will be the _only_ queen in her capital city instead of sharing the limelight, and they’ll be allies. Uneasy allies, perhaps, but Rica’s gotten into bed with worse. 

She’s even got an invitation to tea and an assurance that the palace is less stingy with their firewood. 

At least she knows Arlo is in her quarters with Endrin, and Arlo won’t let his nephew suffer the cold regardless of whether Eamon wants to ration out his supplies. Her brother will just start chopping up the furniture. 

But it isn’t until she steps outside that she realizes _why_ it’s so cold. 

Anora is chattering on her left, which means she misses the split second of shock Rica can’t swallow when she emerges into a world covered in white, soft ice. 

“Winter in Ferelden is beautiful, isn’t it?” Anora sounds unbearably fond. A queen clearly in love with her country. “It’s a pleasure as always. I look forward to our tea.” 

“Of course your majesty.” Rica’s mouth keeps working, even as her mind screams in disbelief. “Have a pleasant evening.” 

The door to the carriage closes. The massive horses clop off. Rica is left, alone, in front of the Arl’s mansion in a world unnaturally silent. 

She holds out her hand and watches crystalline flakes dot her skin. They’re ice cold and breathtakingly beautiful, more elaborate than any gems she’s ever seen. There’s a word for this phenomenon. She’s heard it whispered in dust town, but she can’t remember it. And even if she could - seeing it for her own eyes is something else. 

Despite the cold, she doesn’t turn back to the estate. Instead, she sweeps past the guards toward the entrance to the elaborate gardens. There’s a part of her that wants to pick up her heavy skirts and run, but she’s too aware of eyes on her no matter what. Waiting. Whispering. Watching for the slightest mistake.

These nobles don’t differ that much from the ones she’s used to, after all. 

The sight of the barren garden buried in snow is worth the cold. Stark tree branches are softened by white, hedges capped by it. Statues of… Stone knows who they’re of to be honest, are blanketed with it. Her skirt drags through it. 

She’s never seen anything like it. When she brushes her chilled fingers over the hedges, it falls off in a cloud of dust that sticks to her pale skin. Sparkles like diamonds in the air. 

She follows her curiosity through the abandoned pathways, staring around wide-eyed. It’s enough to get lost in, except she’s a dust town girl at heart, and she can never fully lose her head. 

Which is why the soft sound of a footstep registers. In a heartbeat Rica is solidly back in her body, tense and ready, because she knows three things _very_ well. 

First: she’s alone. Second: Bhelen would certainly send an assassin to cut her throat. 

Third: -- and most important -- she keeps the little knife in her bodice for this very reason. 

She doesn’t turn. She wraps her arms around her torso as if to ward off the cold, fingers dipping into her gown to withdraw the tiny blade from between the tits that brought Orzammar to its knees. Deft fingers withdraw it from the bejeweled sheath, fingers curling around the pearl handle. 

She _will not_ die here. Not now. Not _yet_. 

The person behind her is taller. No dwarf, then, and honestly it’s almost flattering Bhelen sprung for a proper assassin instead of a Carta rat. At least she won’t have to stab someone she may recognize. She doesn’t turn around, she sails forward through the snow serenely.

She approaches a massive statue rising out of the dead flowers, a woman in a long gown holding a bowl just like all the other ladies with blighted bowls she’s seen since coming topside. 

The steps close in and she strikes like a cornered deepstalker.

Rica whips around, blade flashing in the dim light. She goes low, aiming for an unprotected gut, but her assassin anticipates her moves. Long, tanned fingers fly for her wrist, twisting it just enough for her grip on the blade to loosen. 

In a dizzying moment, she’s pressed back against the statue and a tall, handsome figure looms above her. Her own knife is at her throat, the flat of it an icy bite against her cold skin. 

Zevran Arainai smirks and taps her throat with the blade, tsking. “ _Bambolina_ , I am far too handsome to stab, _si_?”

She’s uncertain how he’s gotten the upper hand, but she’s _very_ certain the bright burst of desire in her blood is a direct response to being at his mercy. 

She sends him a heated gaze from beneath her lashes, curling her lips up into a smile. “And my throat is far too nice to cut, isn’t it?” 

“I’d much prefer to pepper it with kisses,” Zevran admits shamelessly.

Amusement bubbles alongside the lust. She tips her head to the side, exposing the side of her neck for his perusal. She arches her brow in a silent question. _What are you waiting for_?

The answer is clearly that he was awaiting only an invitation. His dark eyes sparkle with wicked delight and he swoops down. 

She takes advantage ruthlessly, attempting to snatch her little blade back just to see if she can. She’s thrilled to find that when her hand flies for his wrist, it’s caught by his free hand and pinned above her head. 

Gooseflesh breaks out over her skin at the warmth of his chuckle, the brush of his nose against his ear when he leans down to whisper in her ear. “And to think I worried you would be accosted by an assassin wandering alone out here.” 

“To be fair, I have.” Her heart hammers in her throat, a blend of thrill and arousal. Zevran presses a kiss just below the lobe of her ear that she feels the whole way to her knees. “And disarmed awful quick. Arlo is gonna have a right tantrum.” 

“Ah, because _I_ would never underestimate you like any other assassin would.” 

He sounds unbearably proud, it’s enough to make her preen. She lifts her chin, smug and defiant, and stares him down. 

“I thought you went off to fight leftover darkspawn with Ren.” 

“Our darling Principessa is _more_ than capable of handling a few hurlocks.”

He’s only got one of her hands pinned to the icy statue, so she lifts the other one and walks her fingers up his leathers. “And _I_ am capable of handling a few nobles. I don’t need a soddin’ nanny.” 

“We are… concerned about leaving you alone,” Zevran admits.

At least he’s honest. The withering stare she gives could shrivel most men, but Zevran doesn’t even flinch. Instead he continues, nonplussed. “Of course you have the Queen herself wrapped around your pretty fingers and the Arl catering to your every whim, but we are not beyond Orzammar’s reach, _Bambolina_.” 

“I’m not scared of Orzammar,” she hisses. 

His handsome face softens. Something flits across it so fast she can hardly catch it, let alone interpret it. His thumb caresses over the pulse point in her wrist before he releases her. “No. You are our brave and fearless Rica, our warrior lady. You have _nothing_ to fear.”

That’s not true. She feared him once, after all. The handsome stranger on Ren’s arm, stirring feelings of dread in her stomach. 

But Ren loves him. Rica loves Ren. Everything else seems to fall into place easily, their trio as natural as breathing with Ren at the apex. And as to Zevan and Rica...

She doesn’t know what’s between them, but she knows it’s more than nothing. 

Which is why she asks the question she’d dare not ask anyone else for fear of showing weakness, of having it used it against her. 

“What is this white shit called?” 

The question startles him and he laughs. He tosses her blade up in the air, catches it and then presents it to her with a flourish. 

“This, _cara mia_ , is called snow. Shall we go show it to little Endrin?” 

He offers his elbow and she takes it with a smile, cozying just a bit closer to him than necessary. “Yes. _After_ you warm me up, Zevran.” 

The grin she receives in return takes her breath away. “As you wish, _mi amor_.”

Something in her ribs flutters at the tone of those strange foreign words. She doesn’t understand them, but she senses there’s something significant beneath them. Something she’ll examine thoroughly later.

 _After_ she’s finally warm again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays from Pornzammar, which can be found at [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](https://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com/)


End file.
